


Much Simpler Than This

by cockybasketball



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Face Slapping, High School, M/M, Oral Sex, lord help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:06:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockybasketball/pseuds/cockybasketball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's been deliberately pushing Louis' buttons all year and, honestly, he's starting to grate on his last nerve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Much Simpler Than This

When the paper aeroplane glides soundlessly across the classroom and falls with a soft plop into Louis’ lap, he does everything in his power to ignore it, at first. He remains with his eyes trained carefully on the words of the book he’s holding out in front of him, refusing to bat an eyelid at the intrusive piece of paper now in his possession until he’s finished his page. He has a rough idea of who’s thrown it, and if past interactions with this pupil are anything to go by, the only thing the kid’s looking for is retaliation; he likes to make Louis feel small, but this time the young teacher is having absolutely none of it.

When, and _only_ when, Louis reaches a place in his book where he deems it acceptable to stop, he shuts the book with a gentle snap and flicks his gaze up to glance at his students, who are allegedly hard at work. He scans over the room quickly, acknowledging that probably only three quarters of the class are actually doing what they’re supposed to be doing (with the other 25% either staring hopelessly out of the window or doodling in the margins of their exercise books, rather than attempting the essay question scrawled across the whiteboard in Louis’ handwriting), before his gaze rests on the aforementioned troublemaker.

It doesn’t surprise Louis to find that the student in question is staring straight back at him.

He contemplates rolling his eyes, tutting or nodding his head pointedly at the question on the board, but his thoughts are cut off when the boy mouths something that looks like _“Open it,”_ and winks. Louis arches an eyebrow curiously, watching as the student’s lips twitch up in a smile, before he glances down at the paper aeroplane in his lap. Fully aware that he’s being watched, and fully aware that, if he knows Harry Styles at all, this is not something worth wasting his valuable time over, Louis reaches down, plucks the piece of paper from where it rests in his lap, and carefully unfolds it.

Even given Harry’s usual disruptive antics during these lessons, Louis is still surprised by what he finds scribbled across the sheet of paper in his hands. It’s a cartoon – a reasonably well drawn one, at that – featuring Louis himself bent over the very desk he’s currently sitting at, pert bum in the air, while a cartoon Harry fucks him from behind, his long, cartoon fingers gripping forcefully at the strands of Louis’ cartoon coiffure. In the foreground of the drawing, Harry has added, somewhat hastily, the heads of his classmates, watching and cheering at the scene unfolding in front of them.

Louis remains very still for a few moments before he’s sure his hands are steady enough to fold the paper neatly in half, and then in half again. He smooths out the fresh creases, and then casts the paper aside, abandoning it on his desk as he scrapes his chair back and stands up.

He can feel Harry’s gaze following him as he strolls around the room, hands behind his back, peering over pupils’ shoulders and flashing stern looks at those who aren’t working, but he doesn’t look over at the curly haired boy again. He knows that a reaction is what Harry wants, and for now, he isn’t going to give him one – so for the last fifteen minutes of the lesson he ignores the burning sensation of Harry’s eyes boring into the back of his head, and continues to pace around the classroom, assisting students who raise their hands, handing out extra paper to those who need it, and clearing his throat quietly behind kids with their phones out under the desk.

Come the end of the lesson, as usual, Louis has to fight to make himself heard above the racket of chair legs scraping backwards and chatter breaking out among students. “If you’re finished, I’ll have your essays in now,” he barks, though he knows only a few of them will be anywhere near finishing, “and if not I want them handed in by Friday.”

A couple of people groan obscenities and the word ‘unfair’ ricochets off the walls, but other than that he receives little in the way of protest; these kids know by now that Mr. Tomlinson is not exactly someone to be negotiated with.

“Styles, stay where you are,” he continues, spotting the lanky, curly haired boy beginning to rise to his feet. “The rest of you can go.”

‘Ooh’s and ‘wahey’s echo around the room, and a few of Harry’s friends nudge him, grinning, on their way out. The boy just smirks, sinking down lower in his chair, and Louis can’t help but notice how _pleased_ he looks with himself as the other students file out, some of them throwing “thanks, sir”s over their shoulders, his piercing green eyes still trained on his teacher.

Louis doesn’t speak straight away, and focuses on busying himself with tidying the papers on his desk and tucking in the forgotten chairs of teenagers now filling the hallway outside his classroom, until he can no longer hear the bustle of their laughter and conversation; he waits until every last straggler has moved on, most likely to the cafeteria or the playing fields, before he addresses the sneering child he’s now alone with.

“Get your book back out of your bag,” says Louis coldly, crossing the room to perch on the desk in front of Harry’s. Before he does so, he strides over to his desk and retrieves the sheet of paper with Harry’s doodle on it.

Harry keeps his eyes focused on Louis, all the while fumbling in his rucksack in search of his exercise book. He places it on the table in front of him.

“Open it to today’s work,” Louis prompts.

The younger boy’s smile spreads slightly wider, if that’s even possible, and he flicks through his book until he finds the page he’s looking for, blank except for the date scribbled in the top right hand corner.

“I thought as much.” Fighting back an exasperated sigh, Louis folds his arms across his chest and eyes Harry very carefully, not missing the way the younger boy’s tongue slips out to lick across his lips, or the way his eyes seem to have lit up at Louis’ obvious anger. “Your literature exam is in less than three weeks,” he says, a questioning eyebrow beginning to arch. He tosses the folded piece of paper down onto Harry’s desk. “Do you really think _this_ is a good use of what little prep time you have left?”

Louis doesn’t wait to hear his answer. He already knows that Harry will most likely just grin and say something with an underlying flirtatious tone to it, so he doesn’t wait long enough for him to get it out before he continues talking.

“Your last couple of essays have been brilliant,” he compliments, cutting off whatever it was Harry had opened his mouth to say, “so I have no idea what you’re trying to pull here. If you can stay focussed just these next few weeks, you’ll get that A easily.”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Harry folds his arms stubbornly, mimicking Louis. “I just drew myself fucking you into a table,” he drones, voice dripping with what sounds like boredom, “and you want to talk about my _grades_.”

“Language,” the elder male chides, but it’s half-hearted. “And I’ll get to that” – he gestures to what was once Harry’s paper aeroplane – “in a minute.”

In truth, Louis wishes he knew how the second half of this conversation was going to play out. He has always been one to have every situation completely under his control, and so going into this with _no idea_ how he’s going to deal with Harry has thrown him a little bit. Part of him is furious, another is amused, but it’s the remainder he’s most confused about – despite the side of his brain telling him that it’s _wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong_ , part of him wants to jump Harry’s bones right then and there. It’s something about the disgusting smirk and the “I’ve already won” attitude.

But for now, he knows what needs to be said. He’s dealt with difficult, underachieving students before, and while he never thought this particular boy would be one of them, this conversation is a relatively simple, repetitive one. “You cannot afford to be wasting my lessons like this when your exam is so close,” he continues, a note of finality in his voice. “You’re one of my best students, Harry; I don’t want to see you fall at the last hurdle.”

Something that resembles a blush rises in Harry’s cheeks. Louis doesn’t give out compliments particularly often, especially not to the more disruptive teenagers in his classes, so he understands why Harry appears caught off guard; he doesn’t understand, however, why the younger boy’s eyes appear to be growing darker and darker with lust with every passing second.

“And as for what you _actually_ spent my lesson doing,” Louis says with a rather distressed sigh, “I’m honestly disappointed.”

Harry allows his face to fall slightly, the confidence that had been oozing out of his pores beforehand no longer quite so prominent. It only takes him a millisecond to build his cool back up, but the falter doesn’t go unnoticed. “Why’s that, sir?” he asks innocently, all big, blinking eyes and disapproving, pouty lips. “I think it’s definitely one of my better works.”

It’s that moment there, as he watches Harry drum his slender fingers on the tabletop, long, spindly legs folded awkwardly under the desk, that Louis decides to throw all of his usual professionalism out of the window. This kid’s been trying to get under his skin _all year_ and, hell, he’s fed up of biting back the retaliation he yearns to hurl at him.

Louis allows a small, smug smile to form on his face, and gets to his feet, snatching the drawing up from Harry’s desk and beginning to pace around the room. He unfolds it, and examines the doodle a second time. “It’s not the drawing itself that’s lacking, Styles,” he murmurs thoughtfully, nudging his thumbnail across his bottom lip in concentration. “In fact, you did do a particularly good job of my hair, and y’even got my tattoos right.” He admires the sparrow delicately scribbled across his cartoon self’s forearm.

He doesn’t have to look back at Harry to tell that the younger boy’s own smirk is undoubtedly spreading wider across his face. “Then what seems to be the problem, Mr. Tomlinson?” Harry enquires, biting back a laugh, his voice sugary sweet. “What’d I get wrong?”

“It’s the content you really need to work on,” Louis says silkily. He strolls over to his desk at the front of the room, one hand shoved in his pocket while the other clutches Harry’s drawing, and perches on the edge of it, swinging his legs slowly. “Oh come on, Harry,” he continues with a groan when Harry’s eyebrows fly up into his fringe questioningly. “Who do you think, out of you and I, is more likely to be the one getting bent over and slammed into the side of this desk?”

Harry’s answering leer is broader than any smile he’s graced Louis with so far, so totally drenched in lasciviousness that Louis want to kiss it right off his face. Dreadfully cocky, this kid. “Seems a bit of a waste not to put that arse of yours to good use,” he practically _purrs_. “It’s a wonder I’ve got _any_ work done in your lessons with that fucking thing swaying left and right the entire time.”

This boy is seventeen years old. Louis will absolutely categorically lose his job if something happens right here, right now, and the two of them get found out. He’s good at what he does and he genuinely enjoys doing it and he really, really doesn’t want to get fired, but. But. Harry’s lips are pink and plump and his mouth is filthy and Louis kind of wants to teach him a lesson that’s a little different from those he has thus far as Harry’s tutor. He wants some form payback for all the times this kid has deliberately wound him up.

He hesitates, trying to steady himself, for long enough to come to the conclusion that he’s already crossed a line – that this is already inappropriate between a student and teacher and, realistically, he’s already messed everything up. Louis doesn’t have much else left to lose, and he supposes there’s always the risk that Harry will go squealing if he doesn’t get what he wants.

With one last exasperated sigh, Louis looks at his pupil and says, quietly, “On your feet, Styles.” Harry obeys, stepping out into the aisle down the centre of the classroom so he can tuck his chair underneath the desk. He looks undeniably smug – and now that he’s stood up, Louis can see he’s undeniably hard, too. “Stick a chair under the door handle,” he continues, finally tossing Harry’s drawing in the bin under his desk, where it belongs, “then come here and kiss me.”

In all his years of teaching, he’s never seen a student move to complete a request so quickly. Harry’s moving in a blur and then he’s in front of Louis, twisting his fingers into the elder’s hair and crashing their lips together – he tastes like mint Tic Tacs and Fanta Orange and he’s licking into Louis’ mouth so ferociously that the pair nearly end up toppling backwards to lie flat on the table. Louis pushes back against him, fighting to stay upright, kissing him back hungrily as Harry groans against his mouth.

Harry’s a sloppy kisser, almost lazily so, but what he lacks in rhythm he certainly makes up for in enthusiasm. They voraciously suck each other’s tongues for a minute, grabbing at skin and clothing and hair like there’s nothing else left on Earth to cling onto, before Harry’s hands move to ping Louis’ braces off his shoulders, and the two of them draw back for breath.

“Always hated kids like you when I was at school,” Louis pants, yanking harshly at the neck of Harry’s shirt to pull him back down for a short, bruising clash of their lips.

“Kids like me how?” Harry murmurs against the corner of Louis’ mouth, his huge hands squeezing, kneading at the round of his arse. He moves to kiss Louis’ neck, travelling further south and licking at his collar bones. “Kids who finger themselves over their English teacher every night?”

Louis’ eyes roll back into his head. “Mmm.” He’s picturing Harry alone in his room, naked, two long fingers crooked inside his arse, tiny moans fluttering past his parted lips. He imagines Harry taking his cock in his free hand, working himself to an orgasm and muttering Louis’ name again and again as he comes all over himself. “Kids that succeed without having to lift a god damn finger,” he hisses through his teeth, fingernails scratching at Harry’s scalp. “Lazy, arrogant little pricks.”

Harry huffs out a laugh against his teacher’s throat. “Didn’t have to work all that hard for this, either,” he quips, smirk obvious in his voice. He raises his head to look at Louis once more, eyes sparkling greedily.

He’s about to say something else, but Louis leans forward to shut him up with another kiss. “Get on your fucking knees, boy,” he says as he pulls back, shoving Harry’s hands off his arse and watching as they fall limply by his sides. Harry does as he’s told, dropping down in front of Louis and flicking his tongue out to wet his bottom lip. “Obedient now, aren’t you? Never done as you’re told before, but now that my dick’s on offer–”

“Just get your fucking cock out,” Harry interrupts. He rolls his eyes with a mixture of fondness and impatience.

Louis raises a hand and gives Harry a short, sharp slap across the face for his cheek, and the strangled, desperate groan it draws out of him is honestly astounding. Louis hits him again, a backhand across his other cheek, for his own benefit this time – just to hear Harry make that noise again. “Don’t speak to me like that,” Louis says, voice as low and as steady as he can make it.

“Sorry, sir,” Harry mumbles, and his voice cracks as he says it, eyes blown wide as he looks straight up at Louis.

Louis briefly considers making Harry work a little harder than that, demanding a more sincere apology that he’s _sure_ he could force out of him now that he’s seen what just a few light smacks will do to the boy, but he doesn’t trust himself to stop once he’s started, and they’re under slight time constraints here – what with the possibility that someone could walk into the classroom at any second. So he lets it go and offers Harry a small smile, fumbling with the zip on his trousers and hurriedly taking himself out of his briefs. He’s hard now, too, his dick thick and flushed in his hand as he strokes his length once, idly. He struggles to bite back a laugh as he takes note of the pleading, _desperate_ look on his pupil’s face; the younger male’s mouth has fallen open and his breathing is heavy, and he looks the most engaged Louis has ever seen him inside the walls of this classroom.

“Please,” he chokes out, eyes fixated on the movements of Louis’ hand.

Grinning, Louis reaches out to brush his thumb across Harry’s lower lip. “Knock yourself out, lad,” he hums, placing his hand gently on the back of Harry’s head.

As if this kid would ever need telling twice. He lunges forward, his full, pink lips eagerly wrapping around the head of Louis’ cock. He licks furiously across the slit, sucking softly while he does, but keeping his eyes locked on Louis’ the entire time, blinking up at him wide and innocent. The elder bites back a whine as Harry starts to take him deeper, gently bobbing his head and using the slender fingers of one hand to cover what he’s not yet reached; his pretty mouth is stretched tight around Louis, and he never wants to see him looking any way other than like this ever again.

“Such a good– oh my god,” Louis begins, cutting off as he feels his dick hit the back of Harry’s throat. “Such a good boy when you w-want to be, hm? Ever – fuck – ever such a good boy for me.”

Harry blinks, eyes watery, and hollows his cheeks as he bounces his head on Louis. He pushes his hand past his own waistband and starts pumping himself to the same rhythm he’s moving his head, and fuck if that’s not the hottest thing Louis’ ever seen.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grunts after a minute, pushing his hand down on the back of Harry’s head and forcing himself in deeper. “In here on your lunch break eating my fucking dick instead, getting yourself off while you choke on me.”

He’s so close now, and Harry’s gagging, eyes streaming, fist moving furiously inside his underwear; Louis doesn’t know how much more he can take. He grabs Harry by the hair and holds him still, thrusting in again and again before he comes, hot and hard, down his student’s throat.

“ _Oh_ , fucking _take_ it, you little slut,” he pants, fingers locked in Harry’s hair and forcing him to stay, choking and crying as he tries to swallow around Louis’ cock.

It only takes a couple more pumps of his fist until Harry’s coming too and he’s moaning around Louis as his eyes shut and his shoulders tense – and then he pulls a sticky hand out of his boxers, licks Louis’ cock up and down one last time, and pulls off completely.

Louis puts himself away, zips up his trousers and yanks Harry up by his hair. He kisses him one last time before he says, quietly, “That mouth will get you far, Styles.”

Harry doesn’t respond, just huffs out the ghost of a laugh against Louis’ skin and presses a kiss to his jaw. Louis grabs a handful of tissues from the box on his desk and thrusts them at Harry for him to clean himself up, sighing, “It goes without saying that you don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Harry nods sombrely, wiping his mouth on the back of his clean hand and taking the tissues from Louis. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” he mumbles in a voice that’s utterly wrecked, smiling slightly. He wipes his hand clean, dumps the tissues in the bin and disentangles himself from Louis, a little reluctantly, now looking the teensiest bit sheepish. Moving slowly, as though careful not to trip over his own feet, Harry goes to grab his bag and exercise book from where he left them earlier before turning to head for the door.

“Oh, and Harry?” Louis adds, sliding his braces back up over his shoulders. Harry turns, cheeks pink, bemused. “I expect you back here at the end of the day for your detention.”

Harry looks slightly confused for a second, and then Louis’ meaning dawns on him, and a beaming, Cheshire Cat smile splits his entire face in half. “I look forward to it, Mr. Tomlinson,” he smirks with a lewd wink, kicking the chair out from in front of the door and turning to head off down the corridor, a spring in his step.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm really nervous and i can't do titles. thank you for doing the thing. clicking the thing. d oing the click.  
> 


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